


In Places Deep

by fredbassett



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 07:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17483504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: Balin is determined that the orcs will no longer rule in Moria.





	In Places Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Broadbeam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broadbeam/gifts).



> For Broadbeam. I found this prompt and didn't realise until I;d written it that it was from your 2017 stocking, but I hope you still like these characters and that you enjoy the story!

“I’m getting too old for this sort of work, laddie!” Balin grunted, putting his foot on the dead body of the orc that lay sprawled at his feet and heaving his axe out of its ribcage.

“Should have stayed behind in the Mountain if you’d not wanted to fight, old man.” Óin panted. He leaned back against the wall to catch his breath from the running battle they’d fought to gain a new chamber. “But we’ve rid this hall of vermin.”

“Ori, take Frár, Náli, and twenty others,” Balin instructed. “Make sure no orcs are close by, then we set camp and let Óin tend the wounded.”

Óin stuck the haft of his axe through his belt and rummaged in his pack for what he would need to work with the injured. To his surprise, the expeditionary force hadn’t yet taken any fatal losses, although he knew it was only a matter of time before that would change. So far they’d had the element of surprise and the orcs had not yet had time to bring their best fighters into play. The battle-hardened dwarves had mainly been cutting a swathe through watchers and scouts and a few troops grown lazy over the long years of their hegemony in the ancient halls of the dwarves.

But now that had changed. In the years following the re-establishment of the Kingdom under the Mountain, Balin had grown restless, and his thoughts had turned to Khazad-dûm, the Dwarrowdelf established in the first age by Durin the Deathless, long-overrun by the orcs from the North. A fire had ignited in Balin’s heart that would not easily be extinguished. Dain had been against the idea from the start, but Balin would not be gainsaid, and even the dragon’s hoard was nothing to the lure of mithril, the most precious metal of all to any dwarf.

Refusing to bow to Dain’s opposition, Balin had not found it difficult to find sufficient followers. Despite the talk of mithril and the ancient riches of the Dwarrowdelf, Óin knew what his old friend really wanted, even though it was never openly admitted or discussed. Balin had a greater prize than mithril in mind – his heart was set on finding and claiming the last of the Seven Rings of the dwarf lords of old, and perhaps that was the reason Dain had been against the expedition.

The heat of battle now ebbing from his blood, Óin stared around him. Their torches gave little light but provided enough for him to see that they were in a huge, empty hall, its walls black and as smooth as glass. In one corner, grey light filtered in through an opening. He could dimly make out a large stone door, still on its hinges, standing open. All around him lay the smashed remains of stone statues that had once stood sentry along the walls, now broken and defiled by the orcs. One upturned head, twice as large as his body, stared up at him from sightless stone eyes. The nose had been hewn away, and the lips split by hammer blows, but the expression remained haughty, full of disdain for those who had dared despoil the halls of the dwarves.

Óin laid his hand on the carven brow and silently vowed to wash away the foul sooty scrawls left behind by the orcs and see the king of old restored to his former glory, for they were there to mend and heal, as well as to conquer. But for now, the living were in more need of his services. 

“Dar, take a group and start ridding this place of our enemy, their stink will not make pleasant company! Flói, Lóni! Get the wounded together! Follow the light in that corner, it will make it easier for me to work. But check it’s clear!”

“On it,” came the laconic reply from Flói, a dwarf who rarely wasted words. A few moments later, a high-pitched scream told him that the chamber had not been entirely free of orcs. As he picked his way through the detritus of battle, a dead orc was dragged out of the door by its heels. “Clear!” Flói called cheerfully.

The light came from high up in the eastern wall of a large square chamber. A small patch of blue sky was visible at the top of a tall shaft, a reminder of the world outside. They’d spent two days and nights in in Mines, fighting a series of running skirmishes that had intensified the more ground they gained, and Óin was in no doubt that the worst of the battles had yet to come. They had not been able to hunt down all the orcish scouts and those that had survived must already be carrying word to their leaders.

They had to make a base somewhere, though, and this hall seemed as good a place as any. They would need somewhere to care for the wounded, somewhere defensible. This chamber with its dim natural light would make as good an infirmary as any. He would talk to Balin later, but for now, he had work to do.

The first of the wounded was carried through the door and laid on the floor, his right leg speared through by an orc spear. Getting that out was going to hurt…

**** 

Óin leaned wearily against one of the fallen statues and gratefully accepted the flask of liquor that Balin held out to him, taking a large swig before handing it back. The fiery trail to his guts spread warmth and went some way to dispelling the long hours spent amongst the wounded. For three it would be touch and go, especially the dwarf who had lost an arm at the elbow to an orc’s axe. He’d stemmed the bleeding and dressed the wound, but despite his reassuring words, he was by no means sure of the outcome.

“So where are we?” he asked, taking a piece of _cram_ and stuffing it unceremoniously into his mouth. Each member of Balin’s force carried enough dried rations for two months. On the march they had lived off the land, leaving their hard tack for when they entered the mines. A supply of fresh water would be needed, and quickly, but Balin already had scouts searching for one of the many wells that had been dug to supply the many halls of Khazad-dûm.

“The Twenty-First Hall on the Seventh Level,” Balin said. “Yon room you’ve taken for your infirmary is, I believe, the Chamber of Mazarbul.”

“So, do we bide here a while and make this place defensible?”

“If Ori and the scouts tell us that there are no orc encampments close by, then yes. It is as good as any place we have passed. Get some sleep. I will await their return.”

Óin nodded, too exhausted to argument. The work amongst the wounded had been more tiring than the battle and no doubt they would have it all to do again on the morrow. He unfastened his bedroll from his pack and unrolled it behind one of the statues. 

It was as good a place as any to sleep.

****   
“We press on. There is much still to be found,” Balin declared.

They had been four weeks now in Khazad-dûm and despite coming under heavy attack from orcs, they had continued to gain ground. So far, they had found and unlocked some of the secrets that had remained hidden from the despoilers of the once great realm. The dwarves had hidden their armouries and treasuries with great cunning, behind doors that no orc had the skill to unlock. 

In one they found a great store of weapons, including many short, powerful bows and large stocks of arrows, something their archers had been glad of, having loosed nearly all their shafts during their month underground. In another they had found an ancient library containing many records of years gone by. They’d had to practically prize Ori out of there, and he still returned as often as he could find time, losing himself in texts of bygone years. 

For Óin, one of the most useful finds had been maps and plans of the ancient city on which they had been able to chart the progress of their opposition and map the remaining orc strongholds.

Balin’s desire now was to make their way to the ancient treasure chambers on the Sixth Level in the hope that they would find at least one that had defied the orcs. Óin knew what he hoped to find there, but for him, one objective was as good as another. They had come to fight and fight they would.

They encountered their first resistance on a wide staircase leading up to the next level. Rocks rained down from above, clattering on their helms and shields. With the ease born of long practice, the dwarves moved into close formation, shields up, the first rank bristling with spears and they advanced ever up, chanting their battle cry at the top of their lungs. _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!_

The orcs yelled back, a cacophany of unintelligible sounds, but occasionally Óin could make out a few words here and there, indicating that the defenders were made up of members of more than one tribe, meaning they needed the Common Tongue to communicate effectively. Óin heard an orc captain yelling at his troops to stop acting like scared maggots and halt the advance of the rock-chewers. 

Óin smiled grimly at the epithet, and at his side, Ori laughed. “Been called worse,” his friend commented as they pushed on up the stair and rocks hammered down on their shields.

For a moment, the first rank of dwarves faltered. From what Óin could see through the shield wall, four very large, heavily-built dwarves had hurled themselves against the spears, trying to break through by carrying the spear points to the ground, embedded in their bodies. It was a brave – albeit suicidal – tactic, that could only come from the orcs being more afraid of their own captains than they were of their enemy.

“Second rank forward!” Balin commanded, his voice ringing loud and clear above the clamour of dead and dying orcs.

The second line of spear-carriers moved smoothly forward, giving their comrade in the first rank time to wrest their spears from the bodies of the fallen orcs and march inexorably on. In the press of bodies there was no room to bring an axe into play, but iron-shot boots did the job well enough, splitting their enemies’ skulls as they tramped on, leaving none alive in their wake.

On they moved, maintaining tight formation, letting the orcs break upon their defence like waves against a rocky shore.

“Keep it tight, lads!” Balin commanded. “We’ve got them on the run!”

He was right. Having failed to stop the advance up the staircase when they had all the advantages of holding the high ground, the orcs were losing heart in this battle. Despite the increasingly frenetic exhortations from their leaders, they were giving ground all the time.

Óin, Ori and Balin had worked together for so long that the next part of the plan needed no articulation. At Óin’s side, Ori and several other orcs slung their shields on their backs and nocked arrows to their short bows, stepping outside the formation, immediately finding their targets and releasing their shafts. 

“Got ‘im!” Ori cried and Óin knew a grey-fletched arrow had just taken one of the orc chieftains.

“Archers forward!”

A hail of arrows followed the orcs down the passageway. The ones that had not yet given up the fight promptly turned tail and fled. The attacking dwarves broke into separate groups for the pursuit, with spears and axes to protect the archers as they followed their quarry, hunting the leaderless orcs mercilessly.

“Maggots!” Ori exclaimed, the light of battle in his eyes as he sought another target and loosed his arrow to take one of the few orcs who were still giving trouble in the throat.

“With their captain down, they can’t get away fast enough,” Óin commented. “Well, most of ‘em can’t,” he amended, hewing at another that had been feigning death, waiting to stab upwards with a long knife as the dwarves passed. The orc died without a sound. 

“Óin! Ori! To me!” Balin’s voice cut through their conversation, and they broke off the pursuit to make their way to their leader’s side. Balin was staring at a three-way junction in the passage, each tall, wide opening identical. “Ori, you’ve studied the maps more than most. What think you?”

“For the treasure chamber?”

Balin nodded. “We are not short of weapons. Let us see if the orcs have found their way into that chamber.”

“Then we take the left-hand way,” Ori said, without hesitation.

“Some of the orcs fled that way,” Óin noted.

“Then we will make them rue their choice.” Balin said.

A thousand paces from the junction, they came to a door that had once been flanked by two tall stone doorwardens, but like so many of the other beauties of the deep, these had been ravaged by orcs. The remains of two enormous stone axes lay broken on the floor.

The doors they guarded were closed. In the dim torchlight, Óin noted on each one thin silver tracery on the stonework. A crowned helm surmounted by seven stars, set above a hammer and anvil. One on the left half of the door and one on the right.

“The emblems of Durin!” breathed Balin.

“There is spellcraft at work on these doors,” Óin said, feeling a prickle in his fingers as if hot needles were being poked in his flesh. “But maybe they will yield to one who hails from the line of Durin where the hammers of the orcs have failed.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Balin removed his iron gauntlets and tucked them into his belt. He stepped closer to the doors and reached out with both hands, placing them reverently on each hammer and anvil. He gasped and almost withdrew, but Óin moved close to him, putting a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. Ori did the same.

Balin drew in a shuddering breath and then pushed. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The doors remained close. Then Balin pushed again, putting all his considerable might behind his hands.

The doors started to slide inwards. Balin pushed again, Óin and Ori lending him their strength, then suddenly, their weight no longer propelled the ancient doors and they continued to move inwards, as if of their own volition.

Óin and Ori stood back as Balin called for torchbearers.

To Óin’s surprise, at first glance the room was empty, devoid of treasure. The light of the torches was reflected off mirror-smooth walls, curved into a perfect circle. Óin was lost in admiration of the stonework, not caring that their hopes of treasure appeared to have been thwarted. 

Then at his side, Balin gasped and seized one of the torches, striding boldly into the chamber. He had seen what Óin had missed. Straight ahead, the smooth walls gave way to a wide niche in the rock, forming a platform on which two objects had been placed with great reverence.

A tall mithril helm, identical to the one the crest on the doors, together with the greatest axe that Óin had ever seen. 

Balin walked forward, step after careful step, and Óin and Ori flanked him. The flickering light from the torch illuminated the two treasures. The haft of the axe was made of black wood, polished to a sheen that had been undimmed by the time the axe had lain within the treasure chamber. Runes picked out in mithril wound around the wood. The twin steel blades were etched with delicate tracery and more runes that covered every part of the surface of the fearsome weapon.

The helm was covered with similar tracery.

“Durin’s helm and axe,” Balin murmured, entranced. “Believed lost for 1,000 years. A treasure indeed.”

“A treasure worthy of the new Lord of Moria,” Óin declared, sinking to one knee and bowing his head. “Hail, Balin, Lord of Moria!”

Ori did the same, and the acclaim was taken up by their comrades until the ancient halls of Khazad-dûm rang with their cries.

“Balin, Lord of Moria!”

“Where you lead, we will follow,” Óin vowed and Ori repeated his words.

“Balin, Lord of Moria!”


End file.
